


It Ain't Your Funeral

by tlbattle



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Action/Adventure, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tlbattle/pseuds/tlbattle
Summary: An outlaw's an outlaw, no matter how far. Jack Marston's got a lot to learn out here.





	1. Chapter 1

_One_  

If it’s one thing his father taught him, it was to not cry at a funeral.

Jack exhales sharply, his lungs stinging from the physical work. He pauses and wipes the sweat from his brow (and a pair of surfacing tears from his eyes). He stares up at the blinding blue sky, blinking away the wet. The sun is high; it must be noon.

He glances back down to the dirt, the grave bigger now after two hours of digging up the dry desert ground.

Jack grunts and shimmies out of the hole, resting on the lip of it for a minute or two to catch his breath. Twin graves are already in place at the top of the hill. A matching pair of hardy people - Mrs. and Mr. Marston; Abigail and John.

Ma and Pa.

Jack gathers himself from the ground, looking over the two grave stones and now the smaller, fresh grave nearby. Rufus was a good dog. But he was old and Jack hadn’t come to his aid in time after that encounter with them coyotes and he was bleeding everywhere and what else could he have done? The ol’ boy was a loyal son of a bitch. Loyal right until the end, giving Jack one last lick before running off to the big pasture in the sky.

The same son of a bitch lies next to Jack now, wrapped in one of the best sheets Jack could find.

His hand lingers over the blanket, feeling the ol’ boy’s matted fur through it.

“Holler at Ma and Pa for me, bud,” he mutters. Then, he gently scoops the pup up into his arms and scoots down into the hole. Gingerly, gingerly, gingerly he sets down the body and scrambles back out.

Picking up the shovel, he fills the hole with dirt.

 _No more tears, Jack_ , he reminds himself, _There ain't no body to cry about no more._

_. . ._

It’s strange to be alone on the ranch.

  
His father died over three years ago; his mother, a year later. It was months since Jack traveled back from Mexico, almost a year since he killed a man in righteous vengeance. Jack reads by the fireplace in Beecher’s Hope now, calloused fingers turning frail pages. The house is quiet and empty.

Sometimes, he gazes out the window, into the dark night, and sighs.

The fire crackles as if in response.

. . .

The ranch life is strange, too.

He’s a strong man now, no longer a weak lil’ boy who can’t hold a rifle properly. He works the land with as much passion his father had (not a lot of skill passed down, but it’s the heart that matters). But a few years alone on the ranch and he’s learned how to survive -

The cattle, milked; the corn, harvested; the horses, broken.

It’s a nice ranch, now, a profitable one. He rides into Thieves’ Landing every now and again, selling his stock to the local General Store.

Sometimes, men will tip their hats in his direction while he rides high on his roan horse, hide shining in the sun. Sometimes, he’s mistaken for his father. Sometimes, it isn’t so bad.

He makes good money, enough to keep the cows (and himself) fed. He makes honest money, which he thinks his Ma would appreciate, too. Mr. O’Bailey and Ms. MacFarlane still help him out from time to time, often lending him some extra blankets or feed for the horses. Ms. MacFarlane was fond of his pa, friends in a past life. Or, at least, that’s what she says.  

It’s Bonnie MacFarlane (O’Bailey) who comes trotting into Beecher’s Hope now, a satchel on the side of her horse brimming with what Jack can only assume is “leftover” provisions (no one has leftovers here, out West, but Jack never says mentions this to Ms. MacFarlane).

“Hello, Ms. MacFarlane,” Jack calls from the stable, hitching his own horse. The routine patrol around the premises was uneventful, but Jack’s learned enough to know that’s usually a blessing.

“It’s Bonnie, Jack,” she says, hopping down from her own steed. “Or Mrs. O’Bailey.”

He can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

“You and your father, I swear,” she continues. She smiles (she’s joking). “I brought you a little extra something.”

She unfastens the satchel from the side of the horse and almost stumbles over with the weight of it. Jack makes to catch her, but she waves him off, steadying herself. “It’s some meat, a little bread, some butter. Just in case."

Jack scratches the back of his neck. He doesn’t quite like when Ms. MacFarlane drops supplies on him without warning. A pang of guilt hits him in the gut. “That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am,” he starts. “But I don’t think  - “

“That’s _right_ you don’t think,” she interrupts, pushing the package firmly (gently) into his arms. “Winter’s coming up in only a few weeks and I _know_ you haven’t patched up your quilts.”

A laugh escapes Jack, and he manages, “You’re very kind,” while peeking over the tall bag. “Come on inside, I can make you some strong coffee for your trouble.”

She waves him off once more with a delicate (calloused) hand. “It ain’t no trouble, Jack. Just a rancher helping another rancher. There’s nothing out here but community.” She grins again, but he can see the sympathy in her eyes. It’s almost pity, but he knows better. She’s too proud of him to pity properly.

"Besides, I have to get back home to Hennigan's Stead, important business and all," Mrs. O'Bailey says, hoisting herself back up on her horse.

"Important business?" Jack asks, curious now. He balances the satchel in his better hand. "Can I ask what kind? Maybe I can help you in return after all your generous rancher attitude."

Ms. MacFarlane laughs, a genuine light chuckle that echoes in the desert air. It’s nice to hear a giggle on the silent ranch again.

“It ain’t that important,” she continues. “My niece is in town. Remember my brother in the East? That’s his little girl. Only seems like she ain’t so little anymore.”

“Oh,” Jack replies. “Well. . . if you need help around the house, maybe reigning her in, I know how much a MacFarlane can be.”

Ms. MacFarlane laughs again. “She ain’t no horse, Jack. But now that I’m thinking ‘bout it, we did bring in a new stallion that needs some breaking. If you’re interested, come on by."

Jack moves the satchel from one arm to another, tipping his hat with the newly free hand. He smiles (his cheeks ache from the movement). “Will do, ma’am. Thank you again for the provisions, they’ll do me a great help.”

Ms. MacFarlane gives him a nod and begins to trot out of the gate, taking off down the road. Dirt clouds follow close behind her. He watches the retreating figure for a while, then starts towards the house.

Better salt the meat before it spoils.

. . .

The nights aren’t bad.

Jack climbs the ladder nailed to the barn, all the way up to the top, and settles himself with a blanket his mother had made when he was a child. It still smells like her, in a way.

He tucks the blanket around his frame, keeping warm against the chilly air. Winter’s on its way. He can smell it.

Gazing upward, he sees the stars are out. The moon is as large as a grizzly’s eye.

Jack doesn’t like being alone, usually, but if he has to choose a part of his life that wasn’t _so bad_ , it’s staring up at the stars on a night like this. He can get lost in the sky. He isn’t Jack Marston when he stares up at the twinkling white lights - he’s an outlaw, a businessman, a politician, a doctor, a rancher, a snake oil salesman. He’s anything he wants to be, anything he thinks he can be.

  
He’s free, up there.

After awhile, his eyes grow tired and eventually close. Bundled up against the cold, he slips into sleep.

He dreams of nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two_

It is four days after Ms. MacFarlane’s visit when Jack begins to make his way to the rancher’s property.

He takes one last look around his own fence line, his horse trotting briskly in the cold morning air. Jack breathes in the crisp wind, his lungs filling to the brim with the clean air. A few more weeks and there will be snow on the ground (he should patch up his quilts).

Satisfied with the patrol, he sets out for Thieves’ Landing.

The shining hide of his roan horse attracts all sorts of people’s looks. He rides with his hat low. He rides deliberately.

Thieves’ Landing is still true to its name. Outlaws loiter near the brothel, petty criminals shamble about in makeshift gangs, attacking any poor, naive soul who happens to wander through. Jack isn’t naive, nor wandering, but he still feels the weight of his father’s rifle on his back.

A drunk passes by, singing loudly before pathetically catching his own boot in stride. He collides with the muddy ground, seemingly motionless afterwards.

Jack hurries his horse.

. . .

The sun is high as Jack approaches the gate of the vast and bustling MacFarlane Ranch.

He inhales deeply; the smell of hay and cattle greet him in return.

The ghost of a smile haunts the corners of his lips, but he quickly tucks it away as a dusty figure waves to him from the estate house.

Mr. O’Bailey hustles to open the gate for Jack, his limp a bit more prominent when he walks fast.

“Hey there, Jack!” he says happily. His voice is low and booming, the tinge of an Irish accent still holding on to his words. The man is thick and tall, built like an oak. Jack, hopping off his horse, is dwarfed by comparison. He wipes his palms on the old jacket before shaking the older man’s outstretched hand.

“Dropping by?” Mr. O’Bailey asks, his green eyes shining with genuine interest. A pang of guilt slices through Jack ( _I don’t belong here_ ).

“Thought I’d help with that horse you need breaking,” he explains carefully. “Your missus told me ‘bout him last time she came ‘round Beecher’s Hope a few days ago.”

Mr. O’Bailey laughs, a chuckle that comes from his stomach. “Firstly, don’t let her hear you say she’s my ‘missus.’ Still can’t get over the fact we married so many years ago.”

“It hasn’t even been a year. . .” Jack says, confused.

“Trus’ me, marriage will feel like an eternity,” Mr. O’Bailey jokes, before laughing heartily again.  

“Secondly?” Jack presses.

“Hmm?”

“You started with ‘firstly’,” he says, feeling a grin once again threatening to show on his face (Mr. O’Bailey always ends up making him smile).

“Ahhhh, yes, so there must be a ‘secondly’,” Mr. O’Bailey finishes. He claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, leading the younger man towards the corral. “Secondly, there’s a bit of a fire happening in the home at the moment.”

“A fire?” Jack asks, stopping and gazing around wildly. He instinctively looks for the signs - smoke, flame, screams. The sky’s clear. No flame. Everyone sets about their business, as usual. Mr. O’Bailey smiles, continuing on to the corral. Jack follows, brows furrowed in misunderstanding.

“There’s the fire now,” Mr. O’Bailey says as they approached the corral. He gestures to the right of the gate, where a slim young man is sitting on the fence, watching as ranch hands try their turn at horse-breaking. He smokes a perfectly rolled cigarette, hat low over his face. Longer than necessary, his black hair sticks out underneath the pale white hat.

“With all due respect now, Mr. O’Bailey,” Jack starts. “I’m not real sure what I should be lookin’ at here. Did you hire another ranch hand? Want me to show him ‘round?”

Mr. O’Bailey smiles again. “Did the missus tell you anything about a visiting niece?”

“Yes sir, but I don’t really see - “

Realization trickles into him, as cold as water. He looks closer at the slim ranch hand sitting on the fence, making out the delicate lips and small chin. He makes out the small curve of a bosom, too, that isn’t hidden underneath a too-large flannel shirt. Well, it ain’t no ranch hand, after all.

Bonnie’s niece sits too nonchalantly. He can see it now; she’s waiting for something, perched but wound up.

“Anna!” Mr. O’Bailey calls. The pale white hat tips up and Jack can see her face now, tanned and freckled, streaked with dirt and dust from a day’s work. “Anna, come meet one of our favorite boyos.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl calls, her voice shrill and loud. She makes no motion to move from the fence.

“Anna, don’t be so rude,” Ms. MacFarlane yells, walking in from the direction of the estate house. She stops, standing next to Jack. “So sorry for her _good for nothing_ _attitude_.” She says the last bit _at_ Anna, who smiles to her aunt instead of responding.

“Are you sure you don’t need help reigning her in?” Jack jokes quietly. Ms. MacFarlane almost laughs, exhaling sharply in a huff.

“If I’m so good for nothin’, best not do this then, right?” Anna says now, standing up on the fence. She flicks the nub of her cigarette away, before rolling casually into the corral.

The bucking bronco chucks the last remaining ranch hand off its back, settling eyes on this new challenger.

 _She’s gonna get herself killed_ , Jack thinks silently. His palms are suddenly slick with sweat again as he unconsciously runs to the fence of the corral to watch helplessly. The stallion is young and strong, with huge hooves and muscular legs.

Jack’s seen a hoof to the head and it ain’t pretty. One hoof of this horse to that girl’s head and she’s done for, no doubt.

“Anna! STOP!” Ms. MacFarlane screams, rushing to the fence with her husband at her heels.

The stallion and woman engage in a serious eye-to-eye game. The horse stomps warningly. Anna stands her ground and pushes her hat further down on her head.

She unholsters her lasso, swinging it in circles. Stepping in and out of the loops, as if she’s a clown in a rodeo, she distracts the horse. It winnies, annoyed. With a frighteningly fast motion, the massive horse charges at her, hooves stomping the ground so hard Jack swears he could feel it underneath his own feet.

The horse is nearly to her now, so close that if -

Anna waits until the last moment, then hops easily out of the way. Throwing up the lasso with one hand, she doesn’t even look to see if it catches (it does).

The stallion’s neck is looped with rope and it winnies again, enraged.

The girl tugs hard, regaining her balance and climbing aboard the steed. She grasps the midnight colored mane, holding tight.

The stallion instantly begins to buck, squealing angrily and calling out. “Anna!” Ms. MacFarlane screams again, this time with worry coating her throat.

“It’s alright, Ms. M-MacFarlane,” Jack stammers, watching and waiting. The horse has begun galloping wildly around the pen. It slams against the fence, trying to scrape the steady Anna off.

She yelps out, her leg colliding with the wood.

“Anna, get off the horse!” Ms. MacFarlane is practically shrieking now, her face red with either anger or concern (more likely the former).

“ _Anna, get off the horse!_ ” Anna mocks. Even over here, Jack can hear her laugh with a snort. “I almost have him, Aunt Bonnie!”

Another minute of bucking. Another minute of scraped legs.

But finally (Lord almighty, _finally_ ) after what seems like hours (maybe days), the stallion tires. He bucks at a slower pace, huffing and slick with sweat.

Anna, breathing hard but smiling, trots the steed around the ring for all to see her handiwork. A few ranch hands now approach the steed, leading the horse by the rope still swinging on its neck. Anna hops off the horse, giving it a good pat on the nose. She sweeps her arms wide, giving her best bow.

“Remember the fire I was talking about?” Mr. O’Bailey says now, nudging Jack with his elbow.

Jack isn’t surprised. He’s impressed.


	3. Chapter 3

_Three_

" _I have half a mind to send you back to your father in New York!_ "

Ms. MacFarlane has been yelling for well over two hours.

The angry rancher’s voice pangs harshly through the estate house, berating her young charge in the back room. Jack sits idly with Mr. O’Bailey two rooms away, sipping quietly on coffee and nibbling on some hearty bread.

“Real sorry about not getting here sooner. Maybe I could’ve had a hand at the horse before Anna did,” Jack says now, once the other, higher-pitched voice spits back at Ms. MacFarlane in the back room.

“ _Well then! Go on! Send me back! Send me back up there, like you want!_ ”

“It’s alright,” Mr. O’Bailey responds, finishing his coffee in a single gulp. “I wasn’t lying about the fire, was I?”

Jack shakes his head, sipping at his own too-strong coffee.

“ _And what? Leave you penniless in the streets? With nothing to eat?”_

Mr. O’Bailey sets down his cup and shrugs, his broad shoulders sagging. “She’s a bit hard to handle, reminds me a lot of my Bonnie, actually.” He laughs, a bit subdued, but still genuine.

Jack finishes the last bit of his coffee, careful not to choke on the grounds settling at the bottom of the cup. “If you don’t mind me askin’, sir, I thought this Anna was a city girl?” he asks, tentatively. “I mean, how’d she know how to handle that horse? And that lasso? Seems to me she was raised out West.”

“ _Admit it! You never liked me in the first place!”_

It’s only when Mr. O’Bailey doesn’t answer as quickly as he thought, that Jack notices Mr. O’Bailey’s mouth has tightened into a thin line. For a minute, the older man looks as if he’s explaining it in his head, but can’t find the words to share with Jack.

A door slams somewhere in the house, startling both of them.

Ms. MacFarlane travels down the hallway in a huff, her cheeks still pink and forehead still sweaty from anger. Mr. O’Bailey stands as his wife enters the sitting room, taking her hand. She smiles at him, apologetically (sweetly).  

It’s a private moment, Jack thinks. His face burns with guilt for intruding.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Jack,” she says now, “I promised you dinner, didn’t I?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Jack starts, standing and gathering his hat. Ms. MacFarlane stops him, setting a firm (gentle) hand on his hat.

“It’s the least I can do, especially after all the rudeness you’ve experienced today,” she says. “And from my own flesh and blood, would you think it.”

Jack relaxes a bit. Dinner would be mighty fine, especially after all that coffee sitting in his gut. “Alright, I guess,” he finally concedes. “Thank you again, Ms. MacFarlane.”

She smiles again, the same flash in her eyes of pride and sadness. “And after that, you can sleep here tonight. It’s getting late and we have an extra bedroom upstairs. I’m not letting you leave in the middle of the night.”

“Dinner’s just fine, honest - “

“We have too many outlaws out here running around, you know it. I ain’t going to let you ride back to Beecher’s Hope alone and have you robbed blind, deaf, and dumb.”

Jack’s eyes sting hard with tears and his heart is heavy, suddenly. He can’t quite breathe, like a weight had been thrown at him and he caught it in the stomach.

Gazing at Ms. MacFarlane now, with Mr. O’Bailey nearby - it’s as if looking into a warped mirror, where his parents’ reflections are standing instead. The sternness of her voice, coupled with the gentle, sympathetic tone, is just too familiar. The way Mr. O’Bailey stands behind her, protective yet lovingly, just like his pa used to.

"Well you make a good argument, Mrs. O'Bailey," he replies quietly, careful to make his voice steady. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"It ain't none," she says with a swat of her hand. "Here, Patrick will set you upstairs."

Mr. O’Bailey grins, gesturing to follow as he disappears upstairs.

It feels like home, but he knows it ain’t.

. . .

The old MacFarlane estate house is comprised of two grand floors, built a long time ago by Ms. MacFarlane’s father. Jack had only met the old man once before his bad heart took him, but he liked the genuine kindness the man showed him, and his gruff attitude of a true rancher.

It’s the same kindness Ms. MacFarlane extends to Jack so often, and he wonders how he could pay her back as he folds the undershirt he had been wearing all day. He sets his separate button-down on a spare chair in the corner of the room and goes to slip on the sleeping shirt Mr. O'Bailey lent him.

Anna was sent to her room immediately after the scathing Ms. MacFarlane had given her. She had swiftly closed the door when Mr. O'Bailey and Jack made their way up the stairs earlier in the night; Jack had only a glimpse of her pinched face before the wooden door slammed shut.

Jack sighs now, his eyes sweeping over the various tools and weapons he laid out on the drawing desk nearby. A hunting knife, a pistol, a satchel full of freshly picked herbs he had plucked from the side of the horse trail in the afternoon - essentials.

The pistol belonged to his father, the late great John Marston. The knife had belonged to his mother, the lesser known (and greater) Abigail.

Jack stares at the weapons for a long while before crawling into the borrowed bed. He blows out the lantern, letting sleep take him.

. . .

Jack rises with the sun.

He wakes early out of habit, and for a long minute, can’t remember where he is. He lets the panic pass before sitting up. The MacFarlane Ranch. A stallion. Anna.

The early morning sunlight seeps through the guest room’s window, a pale light that touches his dirt-streaked skin with weak warmth.

Jack stands, collecting his undershirt, shirt, and trousers from the chair and drawers. Buttoning his shirt, he realizes the pattern is similar to the one Anna was wearing yesterday. Anna, the New York city girl, the one who was supposed to be dressed in fashionable dresses with her hair pinned up on her head and smelled of lilac.

Anna, the too-skinny girl with dirt under her nails and tobacco stains on her fingers.

A knock came at the door as Jack slips his hunting knife into his boot. "Jack? Breakfast is ready in the dining room," Mr. O'Bailey says, poking his mustached face into the room.

"Thank you again, Mr. O'Bailey, I'll be down in minute or two," Jack responds, standing. With a nod and a smile, Mr. O’Bailey closes the door. Jack can hear his heavy footsteps heading down the stairs and he slips the pistol back into its holster only once he knows the older man is gone.

Can never be too careful, that's for certain.

Jack makes sure to fix the bed before heading down himself, mostly out of guilt for dirtying them up in the first place. Catching his reflection in a hallway mirror, he stops. His father’s jawline, his mother’s eyes. His father’s unruly hair, his mother’s small lips. His father’s stubble, his mother’s smile.

My oh my, did he need to shave.

“You ain’t that pretty,” a voice says from down the hall. Jack jumps, his cheeks on fire from being caught staring at himself.

Anna shuts her door aggressively, walking down the corridor towards him. She has the same boots on, the same flannel too - the only thing different is that she isn’t wearing her hat yet. Her pale blond hair is almost white, braided tight to her head. Her face, tanned from ranch work, is still streaked with dirt and wearing a pissed expression.

 _A lovely desert flower_ , Jack thinks sarcastically. _Or just a cactus, no flower._

Anna says nothing more to him, passing by and rolling a cigarette with one hand. Disappearing down the stairs, Jack follows (after his heartbeat is back to normal).

Ms. MacFarlane is cutting up the last of the bread while Mr. O’Bailey fiddles with something on the table. Anna’s already seated, half her plate gone.

She glances at Jack, her light green eyes piercing right through him.

“Well sit down then,” she says, kicking out a chair towards him.

“Anna, don’t start,” Ms. MacFarlane warns, brandishing the bread knife.

The girl shrugs, bony shoulders moving up and down. “I’m just offerin’ a seat, Aunt Bonnie.”

She scarfs down the rest of her beans and eggs, hardly pausing to chew. “Fine, take mine then,” she says, standing, her mouth still plenty full. Taking her hat off the table, she tugs it down hard on her head.

“I’ll be outside if y’all need me,” she announces to no one in particular. She passes by Jack once more, green eyes slicing through him, and walks out the back door.

Jack breathes, realizing he had been holding it. The skin on his arms are gooseflesh, pricked up by _something_.

"Patrick can you watch her?" Ms. MacFarlane quickly asks of her husband once Anna has disappeared from the room. He sighs, but nods and sets down the small figurine he had been trying to fix.

"I best be heading back to the ranch," Jack says dumbly, numbly, still standing in the doorway. Ms. MacFarlane nods, too exhausted to argue.

"Come down if you need company or a warm fire and a meal," she says weakly, pulling him into a hug. Jack, as usual, stands with his arms at his sides. He never knew if he should return the gesture or not.

Another tip of the hat and he’s gone. Four more seconds and he’s on his horse.

He needs to get home.

He needs to feel safe again.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Four _

The patrol run is quiet tonight.

Jack shoulders the shotgun, walking briskly around his property. The moon is high and bright. The stars are shining and the air is crisp. He inhales deeply, the scent of the oncoming winter filling his lungs. 

His father’s poncho is scratchy, but warm. It smells a little like a campfire, smokey and hearty, but there’s something else there too, the vinegar of sweat, the harsh scent of horse. John is in this poncho, Jack can feel it. 

His heart suddenly hurts, his hand slick on the shotgun. His mouth is dry, his ears ringing. His vision blurs into darkness. He’s conscious; he collapses to his knees, panting hard. 

“W-Who’s there?” he chokes out, but he knows he’s alone. He’s been alone for some time, now. 

God, he misses them. He misses them  _ so damn much _ . They’re always in the back of his mind, their ghosts always lingering at the edge of his vision. He still cries out for his Ma in the middle of the night sometimes, sweating and shaking and tear-streaked.

He accepted their deaths long ago, when he learned the truth of their pasts. 

But the pain still holds him, dull and achy in the middle of his chest. 

_ “...Jack?!”  _

A voice - far away, high-pitched, pleading.  _ “Jack?! Are you here?!”  _

Ma?

His head is reeling, too-heavy, too-light. He blinks and blinks, trying to focus, trying to find her. There’s a hand on his shoulder and he yelps in both shock and awe. “Jack?” 

It is not his mother. It was never his Ma. 

Ms. MacFarlane shakes his shoulder, stands him up and holds him steady. “Jack - Jack, are you alright?” 

His vision is still marred with darkness, but the fuzzy visage of Ms. MacFarlane comes back into view. Her features are distorted - has she been crying too? 

The blonde woman is holding him upright, her hands tight on his shoulders. He blinks again and she finally focuses; her eyes are red and rough, her hair a mess of straw-blonde hair. Her eyes are wide, but not quite seeing. 

“I-I’m fine,” he manages, his voice strange in his own ears. “What’s happened?” 

Ms. MacFarlane releases him and he wobbles a bit - she wrings her hands. “It’s Anna,” she says wildly, panicked. “She’s - she’s missin’.” 

Jack shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. Anna?

“What d’ya mean, she’s missin’?” he repeats to her, but they’re already walking to the stable, already unhitching their horses. 

Ms. MacFarlane mounts her own horse, a coal-black mare. “We had a scare with some cattle-nabbers, but we were able to scare them off. But Anna was out there too - and she hasn’t come back,” she explains, regaining some part of her composure. Her eyes are still slick, her cheeks glistening with tears. 

“How long ago was this?” Jack says, hopping onto his mount. The horse can feel his excitement and his head’s swimming, but the disbelief has leaked away. Focus, Jack. 

“This morning,” she replies. She nudges her horse towards the gate. “We have to go, Jack. We have to find her.” 

He nods at her and together, they set off at a sprint. 

. . .

They search the entire night.

Ms. MacFarlane is eventually joined by her husband and those two head out west to look for their missing niece. 

Jack heads east instead, calls to Anna in the darkness and feels stupid for doing so (she wouldn’t respond to him, anyway). There are signs of a struggle about a mile out from the MacFarlane ranch, then an abandoned camp two miles after that. He calls for Anna again, his voice growing hoarse with each yell. 

The dawn is cracking the gray-pink sky when he heads the ten miles back. The sun is up and about by the time Jack trots into the ranch again. He throws a leg over his horse, dismounting and landing hard on his feet. An entire night on horseback has jumbled his bones; he can barely stand straight. 

His muscles are heavy and sore; it takes him a good twenty minutes to walk back to the MacFarlane manor. He knocks on the door, expecting Ms. MacFarlane to answer - but he hears a quick whistle and sees the property owners trotting through from the other side of the ranch. 

They’d been out all night, too.

“Any luck?” he asks, but he knows the answer - their saddles are devoid of any other person. Anna was long gone. 

Mr. O'Bailey shakes his head and it takes Jack a moment to process that Ms. MacFarlane isn’t silent because she has nothing to say - she just can’t say nothing. 

“C’mon,” her husbands says to her, tugging the reins of her horse with his. He helps her dismount and takes her by the hand and elbow into the house. Jack awkwardly follows, unsure what to do (unsure what he’s expected to do). 

He shuts the door behind him and rushes to put a pillow underneath the head of Ms. MacFarlane, who has been guided to the couch. The next two hours comprise of the two men trying to make her as comfortable as possible, in her absolute silence. Mr. O'Bailey fetches both water and tea for her; Jack scrambles through a linen closet upstairs to find a blanket or two; the pair attempt to make a meal. 

“I can’t believe this,” she says suddenly, breaking her quiet vigil. “She’s  _ left _ .”

“You don’t know that, dear,” Mr. O'Bailey replies with a grimace. Jack furrows his brow; she’s missin’? Or she  _ left _ ?

It dawns on Jack now, the fight between Anna and her aunt, the broken-in stallion: she couldn't have been that upset at her aunt, could she have been? 

Ms. MacFarlane sits upright on her couch, letting her boots hit the wooden floor. “That lil’ she-devil has  _ no idea _ who she’s messin’ with,” she seethes, the fire raging in her heart. “When I get my hands on her - !” 

“Bonnie,” Mr. O'Bailey says, putting a heavy hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We can’t go after her like this. She won’t come back willingly if we set the hounds on her.” 

Jack watches the woman of the house nearly burst into flames at her husband’s words (marriage  _ is  _ an eternity and Mr. O'Bailey is going to be paying for that one).  

“Like damned hell!” she snaps in return. She stands, shaking off his hand. “I’m gonna find that slick lil’  _ bitch _ and I’m goin’ to send her  _ straight _ back to New York.” 

“Let me find her.” 

Jack’s unsure who said  _ that _ until he notices the MacFarlanes both staring at him in unison (oh -  _ he’s _ said that). 

He clears his throat, sits straighter in his seat. “L-Let me find her for ya, Ms. MacFarlane. I - she’d be more willin’ to come back if you don’t set a tornado after her.” 

He means the last part as a joke, as a light-hearted dig at the fury and fire that is Ms. MacFarlane, but gulps as her expression remains unchanged. She stares at him for a real long minute, staring right into his brown eyes with her own baby blues. 

She motions for him to stand up and he does obediently (no need to add to the fire at this point). Ms. MacFarlane leans in close enough for him to smell the trail dust still on her clothes. 

“You bring her back to me, Jack Marston,” she says. “You bring her back to me, alive.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time, no post D: // let's get back into the game, shall we! :)


End file.
